


Root and Stone

by Trobadora



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy Politics, Gen, everywoman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm Crel, Magician of the Queen's Court." She kept up the steady push of magic outwards from her core, keeping constant defence against Holzmoia's own terrain. "Sent to bring the words of the Queen."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Root and Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selden/gifts).



> Thank you for requesting this pairing, and I hope I did it justice!

"If you're here for a fight, it won't go well. For you or those who sent you."

Holzmoia stood before her, brown hair curling wild from under a small scarf, dark eyes narrowed by a frown, arms crossed over an open leather jacket.

The grass around them and the leaves of the trees and bushes rimming the brook were vibrating with Holzmoia's anger, but Crel smiled inwardly. She'd caught the witch just at the small brook marking the border between the Queen's cultivated land and the wild Woods, and here, out in the open, Holzmoia had all the advantage; the magics of living things were her strength, after all. She _was_ Woods-born, had grown to the song of the trees even in her mother's womb. In an open fight, out here, city-born Crel would stand no chance.

But she wasn't lashing out, not making use of the abundant life around them. She was posturing. And if Holzmoia was posturing, she was also listening. Listening, rather than swatting the intruder like a fly, or trying to. Crel had sifted carefully through reports and rumours about all the witches before she'd chosen Holzmoia, and it seemed she'd judged correctly.

"I'm Crel, Magician of the Queen's Court." She kept up the steady push of magic outwards from her core, keeping constant defence against Holzmoia's own terrain. "Sent to bring the words of the Queen."

Holzmoia scoffed, disdain curling and crinkling her face. Crel kept her face and her voice perfectly steady, as steady as her magic. "The words of the Queen," she repeated, "brought to Holzmoia, in last offer. You are Moia-of-the-Woods?"

 _That_ turned the scoff into a snarl. "You know perfectly well who I am, sell-out. Traitor, and traitor's child."

Crel ignored the insults as well. "These are her words: Witch of the Wild Woods, you set foot on the lands of the Queen. Do so again only if you will bow to her. Come to Stonerowe Keep in time for the Returning, and swear loyalty to the Queen, or be outlawed."

The threat was a real one, spoken by a court magician who'd met the witch in person. The Queen's order, given life by Crel's magic - even with all the Woods behind her, Moia wouldn't be able to set foot on cultivated land. 

Witches had always gone between the Woods and the villages and the lonely farms. But after Cramin Castle, the Queen would banish any witch who wouldn't submit. Crel had been at Cramin, had seen the destruction, and she couldn't blame the Queen at all. One angry Woods-born witch, provoked by the local lord - Crel wouldn't soon forget the devastation that woman had caused. 

"These lands aren't hers," Holzmoia snapped. "I set foot where I please. And I don't speak with the likes of you." She turned away.

"Magic must follow a law," Crel said, calmly, to Holzmoia's back. "Magic must have a master. You know what carnage a witch out of control can wreak." 

Holzmoia went very still for a moment, and Crel almost thought she might listen. But of course it was too soon for that. Instead, Holzmoia looked back over her shoulder and laughed, deliberate and mocking. "And that is why you submit yours to your Queen? Her judgement is better than yours, is it?" Leaves rustled and branches creaked overhead, though not from the wind - there was none. "I can control my own magic, sell-out."

"And to what end will you control it, then? It _is_ better. Because it isn't _mine_. You cannot be everything, least of all to yourself." Not something a wild woman would understand. There was no hope of talking sense into a woman of the Woods, not like this. But Crel didn't relish the thought of spending years fighting witch after witch, speaking banishment after banishment, and seeing destruction wrought in the mean time. 

Leaves rustled, louder than before. Before Crel could widen her Repelling, vines shot out from behind her, pulling her back against a tree, knocking the air out of her lungs.

Crel inhaled sharply, but despite the dizzying impact, kept a tight grip on her magic, every inch focused on holding it just beyond her skin and no further. Vines were wrapped around her middle, her legs, her arms. She didn't even attempt to physically break the hold; she knew it would be futile.

Holzmoia came towards her, the vines around Crel's body moving with the rhythm of her steps. "You should never have left your place of stone and iron." 

Crel took a deep breath and sent out a surge of her magic. The vines around her body withered, and she stepped forward, breaking the brittle-dry plants. She plucked some dusty, leached-out, lifeless greenery from her waist and held it up to Holzmoia, raising her eyebrows.

"You kill," Holzmoia snarled. "You are death."

"You're the one who turned a plant into a weapon."

But Holzmoia wasn't ready to listen. "Begone from this place, Crel-of-the-Cities. Go back to your cities and be your queen's slave. Never come before me again. _Or else._ "

Branches and vines curled towards Crel again, and every one of the small clearing's flies and bugs swarmed, turning the clear day dark. She averted the buzzing menace with a wave of her hand and a surge of her magic, and when the air cleared, Holzmoia was gone, vanished into the Woods.

* * *

"If you're here for a fight, you've certainly stacked the deck in your favour."

It was a well-crafted prison, Moia had to admit, all iron and stone, no wood at all. Nothing living, or even formerly living, that she could grasp, save for the food she was given, once a day. No rats, even, or other vermin. This could _hold_ her, for quite some time to come.

Crel could hold her. Crel, who was standing outside Moia's cell, severe, cool-faced, magic pushed outwards, blotting her very life from Moia's grasp. Saying and doing nothing. 

Where was she? There were no stone buildings like this in the villages; this was deep inside a castle, or a city. Foolish, foolish, letting herself get caught walking out to a village, thinking herself defiant. She should have known - Crel, traitor-child that she was, would not have stopped at words, would not have just gone when Moia walked away.

Moia's stomach clenched, but she didn't let it show. She knew what was coming. What else could you expect from a witch who'd sold out, given herself over, who let herself be the instrument of another's will?

Not even a witch, not even respecting the name. _Magician_ Crel called herself now, fancy word, all high-and-mighty and resplendent in robes and golden chain - but all show, all show. Crel didn't even own herself. No, she wasn't her own, so maybe it was as well Crel didn't claim a witch's name, servant that she'd made of herself.

Everything about her was controlled; not even her black hair flowed free. It might have been beautiful, might, yes - but in a tight knot at the nape of her neck, it was hidden away, bound.

Bound, yes. And binding was her traitor-work, the work she did for her Queen.

Not Moia, oh no. Even in stone-and-iron, only her body could be bound.

"I checked," Crel said suddenly. Her face gave little away. Bound, bound. "I checked every inch of this place, and it _will_ hold you. Witch in a cage. Willing to listen now?"

"Cities," Moia snarled. "Stone makes you bold. But stone won't last. Roots against stone, roots always win." 

Crel's voice was maddening, neutral and tied-down and unfeeling. "It can outlast you."

"The briars and the vines will move against you," Moia hissed, not hiding her vicious pleasure at the thought. "Don't think they can't. Roots, growing into every crack, prying open paving and walls. Vines to break apart the stones, be they heavy as a mountain. Brambles and briars to grow over what's left. You can't fight the Woods."

Crel smiled, and suddenly there was vicious triumph in her face, bright as day, bright as life. "Yes," she said with a flourish. "I _was_ at Cramin. I know of what you speak."

Moia jerked back. _She_ hadn't seen it, but she'd heard, oh, she'd heard. She hadn't meant ... 

"I was there at Cramin," Crel continued relentlessly. "I saw the dead. Strangled by ivy, crushed under stones that were pried apart by roots, impaled on quick-growing wood, bled dry by brambles and briar. Is that what you want the Woods to stand for? Is that who you are? It's not who my mother was, but then, _she_ left the Woods."

"Traitor's child," Moia whispered, but it was no accusation this time. Her mind was bubbling, swirling, like water over rapids or down a fall. "What is it you want?"

"Cramin," Crel repeated. "I want never to see that again."

"What is that to do with me?" Moia huffed. 

Crel shrugged, the corner of her mouth pulling down. "You're the one who made the threat, just now."

"You threatened to banish me!"

"Yes." A thin smile. "And you could make good on your threat, or other witches could. And I could make good on mine and banish you, and every other witch I find. In the name of the Queen, and in defence of her people - never think I wouldn't. Tell me, Moia-of-the-Woods - is that what you _want_?"

Moia gasped, lightning-struck, thunder-deafened. 

Epiphany bloomed: Crel ... perhaps had a point after all.

* * *

"If you're here for a fight," Moia said sourly, "I'm not in the mood."

They'd met by the brook again. Crel smiled, leaning back against a smooth-barked tree trunk. "We'll find something soon enough."

They always did. Too much they'd never agree on. But no more threats, not now.

It had been a risk, threatening Holzmoia the way she had, provoking her into making her own threat. Crel knew too well just how serious both their threats had been. But she'd been right.

"Talked to that woman over by Hedgefield," Moia said after a while. "Getting somewhere, I think."

Oh yes, Crel had been right. 

"By the way." Moia, hands on hips, leaned forward with a smirk. "Your queen doesn't know, does she?"

Crel started. 

The Queen hadn't known what her magician intended to do, would not have approved of the risk. She'd been furious when she'd found out just how Crel had convinced Holzmoia to talk, to find some way out of making enemies of the witches for good.

"You thought you got that past me, hm?" Leaves rustled, and twigs bent to poke into Crel's sides. "Oh no no, not at all - it's why I agreed."

Crel had come to know Moia quite well, working with her these last months. She could see perfectly well where this was going, and glared at her companion.

A cackling laugh. "Not so obedient to your queen after all," Moia said. "Not so bound."

Crel let her magic surge, fending off the insistent twigs. "You'd look at it that way."

The Queen hadn't known. Moia thought she still didn't know.

But it had _worked_. The witch, wild-haired and furious and helpless in her cell of stone, had threatened - and from her own threats, had realised where they were headed. 

Freeing Moia from that cell had been Crel's greatest risk, but she'd had to make it. And Moia, freed from the cell, had agreed. It wasn't a solution, not even properly the beginning of one. At best, it was a chance. But that alone was worth it.

Crel held out a hand, and Moia, on her own ground, could give that much. She came over and took it, reaching with her other hand for the knot holding Crel's hair, pulling it free, letting it fall to Crel's shoulders.

Truthfully, Crel preferred it out of the way. But she'd compromise.


End file.
